The Dancer
by shadowhuntingdauntlessdemigod
Summary: Natasha never had the chance to become a ballerina. But that doesn't stop her from pushing through injuries to complete her goals. The Red Room may have crushed her dreams decades ago, turning them into nightmares, but she works to make sure that those demons never return. After all, a few bullet wounds and a little blood never stopped her before.


**This is just a short idea that I've had in my mind for a while. It focuses on Natasha as a dancer mostly. So, anyways, I hope you guys like it!**

**Big thank you to DreamEscape1675, who helped me with some of the descriptive parts and gave me more ideas! :)**

**I don't own any of the characters, as I do not work at Marvel.**

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Dancing always gave Natasha a sense of freedom. She was in her natural element of light and shadow. As a young girl, her dream was to become a ballerina in the Moscow ballet, taking the stage in front of an international audience and twirling with grace and precision. The dream turned into a nightmare as she was dragged into a world of demons and pain after the Red Room took all of her dreams from her. She was trained, unmade and controlled like a marionette until Clint Barton finally cut the strings.

Natasha never did get to fulfill the dream that was once so important to her. If she had a little extra time, in-between gym workouts, she would pull out her pointe shoes and head down to the small dance studio.

She had been dancing for six and a half hours straight, trying to nail her pointe solo. Three hours ago she had collapsed from exhaustion and pushed herself back up. The pain from her not completely healed bullet wounds screamed for her to stop, but she knew better than to give into the pain. Two hours ago she had cut her foot on a piece of broken glass from one of Tony's beer bottles when she walked around for a break without shoes. Blowing out curses with hot breaths, she jammed her foot back into her pointe shoe and continued dancing. One hour ago the blood began to seep through the dainty pink fabric.

She pushed herself harder, droplets of sweat beading and falling off her head as she spun on her toes. Wincing, she dropped out of the spin and stepped gracefully across the room in time to the music.

Late afternoon light spilled into the room's glass windows, bouncing off the mirrors and illuminating the dark wood floors. Rolling her shoulders one after the other, she then spun around in a graceful arabesque, her leg straight in front of her. She shifted into an attitude turn, her injured pointe foot holding all of her weight. She landed in first position and did a quick leap into fifth. Her assassin form had always been perfect for dancing. Small, so she could execute the moves perfectly, but muscular and coordinated to complete the trickier moves. Years of being trained in coordination had payed off in another aspect of her life.

That was what she loved about dancing. There would always be a move or two that she would have to work at in order to make it perfect. And that drive to perfection was often what drove away her demons, whether they came for her in the morning or in the shadows of the night.

Her red ponytail danced on her neck as she skidded her injured foot along the floor in a slow circle. Dipping into a plea (pleyay), she dropped to the ground as the music faded off. She lay on the floor for a moment, catching her breaths heavily, before she realized that her solo was nowhere near done. The end portion finished before the beginning, which she found slightly ironic.

After her breathing was mostly back to normal, Natasha sat up, finally acknowledging the pain that seemed to be stabbing her injured foot.

Smiling, either from tiredness or happiness at finally finishing something, she began untying her pointe shoes. The first velvety ribbon came off easily, and she gently slid her foot out of the shoe, grateful for the sudden excess of space around it as the tight shoe was removed.

Natasha grimaced as she undid the second shoe, the sudden pressure forcing more blood from the pad of her foot. Blood dripped onto the floor as the shoe finally came off. The flat toe used for balance was soaked in the crimson liquid, as was a good half of the rest of the shoe. She took a deep breath, her chest pushing against the tightness of her black leotard. Pushing a stray hair from her face, she surveyed the room to get her mind away from her injury.

Her dance bag was in the corner of the room. Simple floor to ceiling mirrors covered one wall of the room, windows covered the most of other wall, and the two remaining walls were a deep, blood red.

Standing up, her green eyes fell to the floor where something seemed out of place. She cocked her head so that the light hit the floor perfectly.

Small sections of blood in the shape of the toe of her pointe shoe dotted the floor. A red circle was in the center of the room where she had dragged her foot earlier during her routine.

She hopped over to her dance bag and began wrapping a bandage around her foot. Amid the pain, a smirk played across her face. All her life, she had been taught to tell a story, to paint with her dancing. Looking at the pattern of blood on the floor, she realized that she had indeed painted part of her solo.

A soft knock came to the door. When she opened it, a certain blonde super-soldier was standing on the other side. His ice blue eyes scanned over her leggings, leotard, and her messy hair. A sheepish blush crossed his cheeks.

"Am I interrupting something?" he asked, innocently.

"I was just finishing up," she replied, standing up and shouldering her bag, being sure to place most of her weight on her uninjured foot. "You needed something?"

Steve tried to push the image of her in the leotard out of his mind, attempting to put on the commanding stature that he so often wore. "Fury called us in. Another mission debriefing. Are you alright to go?" His eyes landed on her bandaged foot.

Natasha bit back the reply that was forming on her tongue when his eyes crossed over her injury. No way a little blood would keep her from completing her objective. Nor did she want Steve to think that it would hold her back. The snarky comment died before it exited her mouth when she realized that he would treat her the same if she were non-injured. Just like he had on countless other missions. "Yeah, let's go."

He smiled and followed her out the door, closing the portal to the dance room as he left.

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**Feel free to leave a comment if you enjoyed it ;) They really make my day so much better!**


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